


How to Leave Wilby in Five Easy Steps

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: Canadian 6 Degrees, Wilby Wonderful (2004)
Genre: Backstory, Coming of Age, F/M, Friendship, Gift Fic, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Teen Pregnancy, Teenagers, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandra growing up in Wilby</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Leave Wilby in Five Easy Steps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luzula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/gifts).



> Thanks to Ride_4ever for beta, and to Sock_Marionette for help with cultural references.

**1.**

You're twelve years old and the first girl in your class to wear a bra. 

Your mom makes a big fuss when she takes you to buy bras.  She gets you new clothes, too, more expensive than you’ve ever had before.  Money is tight, like always, but she says that this is a special occasion and besides, it’s important for a young lady to look her best.  She gets you your own makeup and teaches you how to use it—like you haven’t been sneaking hers for ages!  She shows you about Kotex, too, and how to keep track of your period so you know when it’s coming.  That’s very important, because you wouldn’t want to get caught by surprise and have blood all over your skirt in the middle of school.

She sits you down for a big talk about boys and how a young lady is supposed to behave around them and how you have to be very careful never to go off alone with a boy or let him touch you except on the arms or the face.  But she also keeps talking about how it’s important to make a good impression on the boys; to remember to smile when they talk to you ( _you have such a pretty smile, you’re lucky you’re so pretty, the boys will be lining up to ask you out_ ), to ask them questions to show that you’re interested in what they have to say ( _but mind your manners_ ); to always have something to say but not talk too much ( _no one likes a chatterbox_ ).  A young lady has to take care of her appearance and her reputation.  That’s what will make a nice boy want to marry you when you’re older. 

The way your mother talks about boys makes them sound like a combination of Prince Charming and Jack the Ripper.  The way she talks about young ladies sounds like she’s back in the last century with white gloves and tea parties and chaperones.  It has nothing to do with how real women live—modern, liberated women like Mary Tyler Moore or Julie Barnes from _The Mod Squad_ (which you have to watch at Deena’s because you don’t have a TV and your mom would have a fit if she knew what the show was about). 

Your mom’s advice has nothing to do with the boys you know at school, either.  The only difference between this year and last year is that when they find out you’re wearing a bra, they stop sticking gum in your hair and start snapping your straps instead.  They still don’t talk to you except to poke fun, or if a teacher makes them.  When you smile at them like your mom said to—the nice ones who mostly don’t tease, like Buddy French or Duck McDonald—they just look confused, or ignore you, or get all embarrassed and run away.

But when you smile at Jack Schroeder, who is fifteen and taller than some of the teachers and has to shave, he stops and gives you a grin that makes him look a little bit like Steve McQueen (only not old).  A few days later, under the bleachers, he teaches you how to kiss and how to smoke.  It’s a better way to find out what boys _really_ think about girls than listening to your mother, not to mention a lot more fun.

 

**2.**

You're sixteen, hanging around Iggy’s diner after school with Deena and Irene, sharing French fries and lip gloss and comparing notes on which boys you like.

“Duck McDonald’s actually kind of cute,” Irene says.  You snort, even though it’s true that Duck grew a lot last summer and doesn’t look quite so much like a scrawny little kid any more.

“He is looking pretty fit these days,” you allow.  “But really?  That face?”

“He has a sweet smile,” Deena puts in.

“Maybe you should tell him that,” you tease.  “I bet you could get him to blush.”

Deena herself blushes as she laughs and shakes her head.

“Or maybe he’d ask you out,” you push, partly to embarrass her but partly because you wonder if you can actually talk her into it.  Deena’s at least as pretty as you are, but she doesn’t have your flair, or your guts.  She needs to stop being so shy and go out and reach for what she wants, or she’s never going to get anything.

“Boys don’t like girls who chase boys,” says Irene, getting all pinched around the mouth.  But Irene—awkward, shy, always saying either the wrong thing too loudly or nothing at all—has never even kissed a boy yet, so it’s not like she knows what she’s talking about. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop living in the ‘50s,” you tell her.  “You can’t get a date by just sitting on your rear and waiting for the boys to notice you.  You have to get their attention.”  To prove your point, you swivel around to lean one arm on the back of your chair and give a little wave to Paul Hunter and Buddy French, who are taking their burgers and fries to a table in the other corner.  They grin at you appreciatively as they pass, pretending they’re not checking out the view you’re offering of your cleavage.

“Now, you know who’s really cute?  Buddy French,” says Deena, and all three of you sigh, because really, how can anyone not sigh over Buddy French?

“I bet I could get him to ask me out,” you say.

Deena gasps and giggles and says Buddy’s way out of your league, you’ll never get him to look at you.  But her admiring eyes egg you on.  And even though Irene gets all fussy and huffy and starts talking like your mother, that’s just her way of pretending she isn’t just as eager as Deena for you to take extravagant risks and tell them your success stories.  Honestly, half the fun of going on dates is telling your friends about them afterwards.

“I’ll do it,” you promise.  “But Deena, you’ve got to tell Duck you like his smile, okay?”

Deena does manage to talk to Duck eventually, but she does it all in a rush when the three of you bump into him in the hall between classes one day, so you and Irene are standing six inches away, not to mention a billion other kids passing by.  So, not surprisingly, Duck just looks startled and embarrassed and mumbles, “Thanks,” and then he goes one way and you all go the other and that’s the end of it.

Your campaign to get Buddy French to ask you out runs aground when he starts dating Evelyn McKinnon.  But Paul Hunter gives Ricky Desmoines a black eye in the lunchroom because you went out with Paul on a Friday night and with Ricky that same Saturday, which proves that Irene really doesn’t have a clue about what boys like.

 

**3.**

You're seventeen years old and pregnant.

Deena keeps trying to tell you not to worry, you’re not really pregnant, people miss periods sometimes.  She’s trying to make you feel better, but all it does is freak you out more.  Besides, you know she’s wrong.  Not even just because you feel queasy half the time.  You feel _different_.  It isn’t anything you can describe; you just know.

So you’re not surprised when you miss your third period in a row, but somehow that makes it feel official.  Real.  You cut school and hide out on the Watch all day, chain-smoking and trying to think.  But the only thought you can hold onto is: _Everything’s over._

When Deena and Irene find you, Deena hugs you and strokes your hair and cries.  She’s so upset, you’d think she was the one in trouble, and that makes you start crying again, too.

Until Irene says, in almost the same voice she used at the beginning of your all-night slumber-party study-session for last semester’s exams: “All right, so what do we do?” 

And for a few minutes, you feel like you’re not facing this alone.

Deena asks what you’re going to tell Jeremy.  You tell her you haven’t decided if you’re telling him anything at all.

“You have to tell him,” Deena insists. 

“He’ll find out sooner or later,” Irene points out.  _Because everyone in town will find out sooner or later_ , she doesn’t have to say.  “And if you don’t tell him first, he’ll probably claim it isn’t his.”

“It isn’t his.  It’s mine.”  You don’t even know where that came from, but as soon as you say it, you know it’s true.

Deena looks a little shocked, and like she can’t quite decide whether to be thrilled or horrified.  But Irene gives you this grim smile and says, calmly, “Good for you.  Just remember that, no matter what happens.”

“But he loves you,” says Deena, even though she ought to know better.  “He’ll do the right thing.  And if he doesn’t, he’s a scumball and you’re better off without him anyway.”

“If he doesn’t,” says Irene, “You can go to the mainland and. . .find work or something.  We’ll help.  I have some money saved up.  Deena, how much can you come up with?”

“I don’t know.  I’ll find out.  Tell us what Jeremy says.”

What he says is, "What do you expect me to do about it?"  Which is when you realize that what you expected from him is exactly what you're getting, meaning: nothing.

He tells you there are places on the mainland where girls can go to get rid of their babies, and somehow you're still enough your mother's daughter that for a minute you actually think he means adoption agencies.  When you catch on to what he's really talking about, you want to slap him, but instead you burst into tears like the idiot loser you are.  At least you walk away before he can beat you to it.

You don't go to the mainland, and you don't tell your mother, either.  You wonder how long it will take before someone notices.  You know how long it’ll be after that before everyone in town knows: about two minutes.  Your mother will have a fit and disown you, or send you off to somewhere even more Godforsaken than Wilby, or lock you in the attic, or marry you off to brain-damaged Bobby Gustafson, who will never understand what’s going on or where the baby came from.  People will spit at you in the street; they’ll run you out of town on a midnight ferry.

You’re terrified and lonely and miserable, but the fantasies are weirdly exciting.  You imagine standing at the ferry rail, with your belly swollen and the wind in your hair, finally telling everyone in this damned town just exactly what you think of them.  _Fuck you all,_ just before the ocean sweeps you away from here and into the future.

And then after three months you're not pregnant any more.  Nothing special happens, you just get your period, and it's a real one, maybe heavier than usual, but maybe that's just your imagination.  Deena says it's a good thing you didn't do anything you couldn't take back, and at least now you can finish high school with everyone else.  Irene doesn't say anything, but she treats you gently and seriously, like you have a terminal disease or something.  You never speak to Jeremy again—no great loss—and you’ll graduate next year, which is a good thing, Deena's right; but you're sorry not to have a reason to leave.

You can't decide whether you're sorry about the baby itself or not.  You'd sort of gotten used to the idea.  But one thing you're sure about: if you ever get pregnant again, you're not going to tell the father.  When you have a baby, she will be yours and no one else's.

 

**4.**

You’re eighteen and the minute you’re done with high school, you’re getting off this stupid island and never looking back.  Out at the Watch between school and dinner, you and Irene and Deena share smokes and talk about your plans.  Except you’re the only one talking about college, about going to Toronto or Montréal or the States, about becoming an actress or an artist or a singer, about getting in a car and just driving until you get somewhere that has buildings taller than three stories and doesn’t smell like ocean. 

Irene, who’s been going steady with Gordon Allister since Christmas, mostly talks about church socials and the car he’s been rebuilding in his garage and how he’s going to go full-time at his dad’s insurance agency once he graduates.

Deena can’t talk about anything but the prom and her hopes that Michael Dunster will ask her (which he’d better, after taking her out three weekends in a row).  You don’t have a date yet, yourself, which Deena and Irene both know, of course, although you haven’t exactly told them.  So now here’s Deena listing possible guys for you to go with, and Irene—who has some kind of social register in her head of who everyone in school is going with—pointing out exactly why most of them are _im_ possible.

“There’s Buddy French,” Deena says, poking you in the ribs with that smile like she still expects you to do amazing things.  “You two would make a beautiful couple.”

“Buddy’s dating Jessica Morrison,” Irene points out.

“People go out with different people all the time,” Deena retorts.  “Albert Corkham went out with Sandy and Pam at the same time.”

“Albert cheated on Pam with Sandy,” Irene corrects her.  Which is, okay, maybe technically true, and maybe you were dumb to believe him when he said he’d dump Pam for you.  But that was months ago, you’ve moved past it, and there’s no reason for Irene to keep rubbing your nose in it.  Which she does, every chance she gets.  You can’t quite tell if she disapproves of Albert or of you, or if she just can’t help gossiping even about old, dead news.

“Buddy wouldn’t cheat,” Irene declares.

“Buddy French is a stuck-up jock who thinks his family still owns this island,” you snap.  “Anyway, I don’t care about the stupid prom.  I might not even go.  I’m going to be leaving soon anyway, so what’s the point?”

And then Irene says that for someone with such big plans you aren’t exactly applying to colleges or saving your pennies or, you know, actually doing anything.  And some of your mother’s bullshit about ladylike behavior must have stuck with you, because you don’t slap Irene’s ugly face.  You just stand up and go out to the edge of the rocks and light a cigarette, staring out over the grey-blue waves at the distant lumps of the mainland.

You don’t know what’s the matter with them.  You don’t know why the three of you are still hanging around together when you have nothing in common.  Except you do know: none of you has much of a choice.  You’re the freaks, the leftovers no one else wants.  Sandy the slut, Deena the ditz, and Irene the busybody who everyone goes to for gossip but no one wants to hang out with.  You’re not friends because you particularly like each other, you’re friends because you were friends in second grade and now you’re stuck with each other.

But they’ve stood by you when they didn’t have to, and they put up with your shit just like you put up with theirs.  And when you leave, you’ll be on your own, and Irene and Deena will only have each other to be stuck with.

So you come back and sit down between them again and nobody looks at anybody for a while, and you’re thinking about telling them the idea you had last night—the three of you could move to the mainland and get jobs and share an apartment, and it’s nothing like your dreams but you could make it _happen_ and it would be _something_ —when Deena says, timidly:

“There are worse things than staying in Wilby.  We’re islanders, after all, and. . .”

She doesn’t say _It’s what’s going to happen to us anyway,_ but she doesn’t have to.

“All I know,” you say, lying back and blowing smoke up at the sky, “Is that there are two kinds of islanders: the ones who never leave, and the ones who never come back.  I know which one I’m going to be.”

 

**5.**

You're nineteen and still stuck on this fucking island.  Your classmates who had a chance at college—Pam Hillman, Buddy French, Paul Hunter, Jessica Morrison—are gone.  Others went to the mainland to work for the military or out to the oil rigs.  Only the losers are left in Wilby.  Irene, married to Gordon and pinching pennies to save up for furniture.  Deena, answering phones for the car dealership.  Duck McDonald, painting houses and fixing drains with his dad all day and drinking with the old farts at the Loyalist every night.  And you.  Still living with your mother, waiting tables at Iggy's, where Dave the cook pats your ass when you crowd past him with your hands full of plates and where you gave Mr. Pinsent a handjob in the washroom last Friday so he’d stop hassling you about how many times you’ve been late to work this month.

Your mother still talks like you’ll be getting married any minute now, white dress and roses and the whole town smiling from the church pews and all that bullshit.  But all the good boys your age and older are gone, or have already dumped you, or think they’re too good to be seen with the town crotch in daylight.  You’ve tried being nice— _cleaning up your act_ , as Mr. Davies the high school principal used to put it—but this town’s had your number since you were twelve and no one’s going to buy you as a good girl now.  Even Duck McDonald—who is a loser, yes, but has never been anything but friendly to you and is kind of cute if you squint a little—even Duck blew you off.  He was polite, even sweet about it: didn’t say anything, just pretended not to notice when you flirted.  But you’ve been around the block enough to be able to tell the difference between clueless and uninterested.  You don’t know who the hell he’s saving himself for, but apparently even the handyman’s son has standards that you don’t meet.

That leaves married men—mostly the ones old enough to be your father, because the young ones are still in love with their wives—and pimply teenagers, and mainlanders.  Your mom thinks marrying a mainlander is a fate worse than death, almost as bad as ending up an old maid, but as far as you’re concerned, a mainlander would be perfect.  Someone who’s seen more of the world than this dinky nowhere island; someone who hasn’t known you since Kindergarten; someone who looks at you and sees funny, pretty Sandra, not Sandy-the-slut.  The only problem with mainlanders is getting one to stick around long enough to fall in love with you.

Leo Welles may not be the man of your dreams, but with any luck he’ll be your dream come true.  Or at least your ticket out of here.  He’s an adjunct professor from Toronto, summering in Wilby.  You meet him swimming off the Watch, which is enough to catch your interest right there: even in summer, the ocean’s too cold for most mainlanders.   Maybe you don’t fall instantly head-over-heels for him, but he’s smart and funny, with just a little mean edge to his humor that makes him appreciate yours.  He’s fairly good-looking and very fit, with a broad chest and tanned, muscular arms that could probably bench-press you if he felt like it.  You’d love to find out what else he can do with that body, but you’ve been taking it slow, slow, slow, playing the young lady your mother taught you to be.  Holding hands, ‘accidental’ brushes against him, goodnight kisses: that’s as far as you’ve gone, and that’s as far as you’re going until you get some kind of definite offer from him. 

It doesn’t have to be marriage—you’re not your mother, you know better than to expect that, and honestly, if he did ask you, you don’t know what you’d say.  You don’t think it’s a husband you’re looking for.  Not just a husband, anyway.  But you need _something_ , more than a-couple-of-fucks-and-nice-knowing-you. 

What you get, after weeks of really quite nice dinner dates and movies and weekend swimming, is Leo driving you back to the Wildwood instead of your own house one night and insisting you come in for a drink with him.  And it’s not like you’d mind sleeping with him.  But you’ve been putting it off for a reason, so it would be stupid to switch strategies now.  Besides, you’re kind of pissed off that he just brought you here without asking you or even mentioning that it was in the plan.  So you tell him thanks, but it’s been a long day, you’re tired, maybe another time and could he please take you home now?

He says that he’s run out of patience with your cockteasing and that you’ve made a fool out of him for long enough, leading him around on a string when apparently you’ve put out for every man in town.  And there’s nothing you can say to that because it’s actually true, so how ugly and petty and pointless does that make both of you? 

So he takes your hand and pulls you out of the car and you don’t even resist; you’re stumbling numbly after him, your heels sinking into the gravel of the driveway as you’re vaguely wondering exactly who he’s been talking to (not that it makes a difference).  He keeps you from falling; pulls you close, his arm coming around your waist, supporting you, moving you along, his body heat warming your side through your thin dress.  He kisses you, backing you up against one of the motel doors, one hand in your hair, the other around your waist, and you feel him smile—and somehow that’s the thing that wakes you up.  You lash out with arms and feet, giddy with disgust and rage, but he’s got you pinned against the door, his mouth muffling yours, and you can’t hit him hard enough to count; you can’t even get a knee up.  And you wouldn’t have minded fucking him but you’re damned if you’re going to let it happen like _this._   You manage to scratch his cheek hard with your nails (just done last week); in return, he shoves you hard, so your head bangs against the door.

And then someone says, “You want to stop that now.” 

It’s not a question, and the voice is soft but it makes your skin creep.  And it does the trick with Leo: he half-turns to look over his shoulder, his hands frozen on your shoulders, still pressing you against the door.  Past him, you see Duck McDonald with a great big wrench in his hand, like maybe he’s come to fix somebody’s pipes, except there’s nothing casual about the way he’s holding that thing.  And there’s nothing casual about the way he’s standing, either, though you couldn’t say what makes him look so. . .determined.  Dangerous.

You’ve heard stories about Duck getting into fights, these past couple of years, but you’ve never more than half believed them.  Duck, the quiet guy, friendly with everybody but friends with nobody.  Duck, who you’ve never heard raise his voice, even when the other boys ragged on him.  Duck, who can’t weigh more than 160 pounds soaking wet, but who looks perfectly ready to take on a big, muscular guy like Leo and maybe smash his skull in with that wrench.

Leo looks Duck over, like he’s trying to decide how serious Duck is—and then his grip on you loosens, and you stumble forward a little, and he pushes you back almost carelessly—and then he’s past Duck, his shoes crunching on the gravel, and his car door bangs and the engine revs and he’s gone.

Duck watches until the car’s out of sight.  Then his head turns back to you, and he nods and shoves the wrench in a pocket, where it doesn’t fit and sticks out looking ridiculous.  And suddenly, he’s the quiet, goofy, nice Duck you’ve always known; the scary fighter is gone, like he was never there.

“You all right?” he asks gently.

“Yeah.  Sure.  Thanks,” you tell him, but then you burst into tears for _no reason at all._

He puts a tentative hand on your shoulder, and what the hell, it’s not like you can make any more of a fool of yourself: you fling yourself against his chest and sob there.  He holds you like your mother used to when you were little and hurt yourself falling off your bicycle.

Eventually pull yourself mostly together, and pull yourself off of Duck.

“Sorry,” you sniffle.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You’re not sure that’s true, but you’re grateful to him for saying so.

“For blubbering all over you,” you offer, but he just shrugs.

“No big deal.  Anyway, I figure you’re entitled.”

“It’s not even him, really.  He’s just an arsehole, I know plenty of those.  It’s this fucking place.  It doesn’t let you breathe.”

“Well, not unless your grandpa was known for breathing back in 1863,” Duck says, one corner of his mouth crooking up a little.

“Yeah, but then you’d better do it exactly the way he did.”  You laugh a little even though you’re still crying a little, too.

Duck rummages through all his pockets, then gives you an apologetic look. 

“Don’t have a handkerchief or anything.  You could use my sleeve if you want,” he adds, wryly.  He holds out his wrist in your direction, and that gets you laughing for real.  He starts laughing too, soft and easy.  You don’t remember the last time you felt this comfortable with a guy.  You could kiss him now; you more than half want to, but you don’t want to ruin whatever this is, so you don’t.

Instead, you ask him for a cigarette.  Those, he’s got.  He lights one for you and one for himself and you lean against his pickup truck smoking together in silence for a while.

“God, I have got to get off this island,” you say, when the cigarette’s half-gone.

“You think he’s going to make trouble?” Duck asks seriously.

“Oh, I don’t even know.  Probably not.  Maybe.” 

“You want to call the cops?”  Bless his heart, he says it like it’s an option, like he understands why maybe you’d rather gamble that Leo won’t do anything too psychotic than tell the Wilby police—and the whole town—what happened.

“I don’t want to wake up tomorrow in my mother’s house and go to work at Iggy’s and smile at people I don’t give a damn about and go home at the end of the day knowing that all I have to look forward to is more of the same.”

“Well.”  He blows a cloud of smoke at the overcast sky, then drops the butt and grinds it under his heel.  “If you really want to get out of here, what’s stopping you?”

Maybe it’s the fact that no one’s ever asked you like that before, or maybe this thing with Leo really was the last straw, but you answer, “Not a damn thing.”

Of course, it’s a little more complicated than that, but Duck gives you a lift to the ferry, ‘loans’ you fifty dollars and his flannel overshirt, and makes you promise to call your mother when you get to the mainland so she knows you’re all right.  He waits with you until the sun comes up and the first ferry of the morning puts out its gangplank, and you wave goodbye from the rail and he waves solemnly back, like a father waving his kid off to Kindergarten, even though Duck’s three months younger than you are, damn it.  And then you go up into the bow so you can watch the mainland grow gradually bigger as the sun burns off the clouds and makes the waves glitter.

You don't know where you're going, but at least you're sure of one thing: you're never going back to that Godforsaken island again.

**Author's Note:**

> Like many people (apparently), I’d always kind of assumed that Sandra got pregnant with Emily as a teen and left Wilby for that reason, until I did the math and realized that doesn’t make any sense if Sandra (and Buddy, and Duck) are approximately the age of the actors, i.e. around 40 in 2004. The characters could be in their early-to-mid-30s, of course, or Sandra could have stuck around Wilby for a while after high school. Anyway, I went with a different explanation for when and how Emily was conceived. 
> 
> This story was supposed to come with a companion piece from Emily's point of view, but I wasn’t able to finish it in time for the deadline. Stay tuned!


End file.
